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There comes a time when punishment is over. Time moves fast during a caning, and then, when the last stroke is delivered, it slows down. Nearly to a stop. There is pain, and there is peace.

She’d been warned about consequences of not doing university work before, and she knows that the punishment was an act of love, and she deserved it. No matter how much it hurt.

But she knows, too, that he still has the cane in his hand, as a badge of office, almost. Justice is one of the strongest ties between master and willing slave. And, justice or not, she knows he’s hard for her.

In a moment he’s going to hold her. And kiss her, and tell her she’s good, and he’ll help her get the overdue assignment finished. But for now, the assignment isn’t what matters. His need for her, and hers for him; that matters. In a few seconds, no more, they’ll be fucking.

There’s a moment of peace after her Master puts the cane down, and tells her that it’s over and she’s been a good, brave girl.

Her mind is at peace. She was caned for her Master’s pleasure, and hers. There was nothing for her to forgive herself for, nothing for him to forgive. He’d just woken up needing her submission, urgently, and he’d cuffed her to their bed, and reached for the cane.

His strokes hurt as they fell on her, of course. But how quickly those individual flashes of pain turn to warmth, to a kind of sensual glow, and then to sexual longing. She watched him as he raised the cane. His cock lifted with that movement: caning her turned him on.

He takes photos for her to admire later, and then puts on a condom. And he leaves her cuffed, wrists and ankles spread for him, while he poises his body above hers, ready to take her. And then that moment of peace is over.

Amy, still in the broom closet, my cock still in her, said, again, “Idiot.” But her tone was affectionate. It was, apparently, cute to be a jealous dickhead. Conditions probably applied, but this time I was being allowed to get away with it.

She reached back and dislodged my cock from its immensely comfortable place. She bounced on her toes, getting her knickers back in place and her dress down to cover her ass. So I dropped the condom in the pail and put my cock back into my pants and zipped up. Amy straightened, grabbed at the shelf above us for balance, and turned to kiss me. There was a sound from above.

Bad advice, as always from these things. I’m here to tell you: you don’t need to have sex in a closet.

I kissed her. We kissed. She said, “You’re my idiot.” Something heavy wobbled on that shelf above our heads. I heard it fall on its side, then roll, then nothing more.

I pushed Amy against the back wall of the closet for safety, and tried to duck whatever was coming down.

Suddenly we were on the gallery floor, in a confused pile with brooms and mops and coats and mobcaps, and Amy’s body and mine. And the rusted tin of paint thinner that had tried to brain me. I looked up, confused and aggrieved by life, and a second later light exploded.

Flawed, me. And floored.

Someone, no, several people, were taking photos. Amy was turned away, looking for her shoes.

So it was portrait of me, bewildered and resentful, with Amy’s hair and most of her legs visible. But I hadn’t thought about the media yet.

Instead I found I was staring up into the eyes of the gallery’s guest of honour, Rico, the Minister for the Arts. Rico was in the Lega Nord, and a fascist in the seldom-used literal sense of the word.

He looked down on us, aghast. He thought this was done deliberately to humiliate him. He shouted, “tu puttana!” He meant Amy was a whore. Sexual insults directed at women were always ready to hand.

It took a few seconds’ thought to come up with something for me. “Tu malvagio disgustoso! Morta cristo ebreo!” I was surprised. I didn’t think I looked especially Jewish. But I suppose anyone who made him angry gained honorary Jewish status.

Frankly, I’d rather fuck in Compton

So the cameras switched from me to Rico. He was still shouting at us. Although there was a moment when he paused, realizing that his bizarre antisemitism was going to be get him bad headlines. All the bad headlines.

Instead he shouted that we were foul, disgusting sexual degenerates, and how dare we fuck, fuck of all things, in this sacred place for the arts!

I looked up at him. Amy was still dazed by the fall. I shouted, “We weren’t fucking!” The lie absolute. I decided to go for the lie surreal. “This is art! Performance Art, you fucking moron!

In that broom closet, as I entered her, Amy said, “You.” I wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but it wasn’t hostile. I pushed my cock further into her, thumbs still digging hard into that crease between her buttocks and thighs.

She said, “Idiot.” But it seemed that at moment she liked idiots. We began to move together, Amy’s ass beautifully firm in my hands and beautifully soft to the pressure of my cock.

We moved faster, and I felt her elbows slipping. She’d stopped holding her hands out.

Amy fell forward, her breasts and face pressed hard and helpless against the closet wall. She scrabbled at the closet wall for a grip, with nothing to grip. We fucked harder.

It was pitch black in there, but I felt sure I knew her facial expression at every second, at every movement. I believed she knew the same about me.

I could feel her body tense, and that was no reason to stop or ask how she was. I pumped her, my stomach pressed against her ass.

In a while – my sense of time is never good in these moments – she said, “Nggggh. Fuck!” And, a few seconds later, “fuck me!”

I already was. I did. I smacked her bottom, as much of it as I could reach. It was a moving target. And again. And in a few more seconds Amy gasped for breath, and her body shook.

I wrapped my arms round her stomach, holding her tight against me. We came, more or less at the same time. It was hard to be quiet when we came, but we managed.

Eventually I released my grip on her stomach and raised my hands to hold her breasts. Amy tried to turn, to kiss me, but at that moment I wasn’t going to let her move.

I smacked her bottom again. I said, “Yeah, girl. You are not to- Look, just no fucking fucking art critics.”

So we were together, Amy saying thank god I’d rescued her from Mr Suave. I didn’t say how jealous I’d been, because that was discreditable. But jealousy and idiocy were still driving me. I walked her into the crowd, which had grown since the Minister’s speech, such being the power of free wine and food. And I pulled her towards me, and opened a door I’d noticed before, hoping it led to another room, possibly an unoccupied one.

Amy said, “Are you serious? The broom closet?”

I said, as if I’d known it was a broom closet, “Yes!” I spun, with my hands on Amy’s hips so that we both disappeared inside.

There was total blackness once I pulled the door closed. Then light; Amy had turned on the torch on her phone. She held it for me while I carefully moved mops and brooms, a metal pail with rollers to squeeze mops, and an upright vacuum cleaner to one end of the closet. “Put your damn hands on the wall, like your fucking friend,” I said.

There were things Amy could say to me about that, and I knew it, but she complied. She was being a good girl: that had mostly proven to be fun. I took her phone from her hand and slipped it into my jacket pocket.

We were back in total blackness. I pulled the little black cocktail dress up at the back and lifted it, Amy wriggling to help, and arching her back so her ass was poised for me.

I still had jealous anger driving me, and lust with it, though I’d started to realize I hadn’t broken up a romance between her and the critic; more heroically, if inadvertently, I’d rescued her. But that spurious sense of justified anger propelled me, and I smacked Amy’s right buttock and pulled her little knickers aside. I shook out a condom from my wallet, unzipped and put it on. I held her hips with all my strength, and pushed, cock hard and righteous, into her. Amy sighed. “Yeah.”

I slid my hands down to hold her lower buttocks, interested in the creased skin at the meeting of her buttocks and thighs. I said, “Creases.” Suddenly the word seemed to have intense sexual significance. And I sank into her, so our bodies met, my cock fully buried in wet, warm Amy. Ensconced.

My novel has been taking up a lot of my blogging time and energy. It’s a bdsm comic romance novel, which is not the commonest genre in the world.

Anyway, I finished Part 3 about an hour ago. It’s survived two critical re-readings so far, and it seems to be good.

So to celebrate here’s a special offer. An excerpt from my novel, ABSOLUTELY FREE!

(Hah! Like I charge for anything.)

From The Tawse’s Tale

We kissed, mouth to mouth, my hands in her hair at last. Then, while her tongue ran along my top teeth, and I smelt breath of green herbs, I lowered my hands to unclasp that bra. In some ways I’m a disappointment to women who really like lingerie. I always prefer bare skin. And though I have kinks enough, I’ve never really been a bra and stocking-tops fetishist. The sexiest thing about Shar dressed as she was just then, to me, was knowing that she wanted me to think she was sexy. That’s the hot part.

Anyway, I wanted to hold her breasts and take as much as possible of each breast into my mouth, and then kiss and suck on each nipple in turn, perhaps grazing each lightly with my teeth. So I had honorable intentions and projects involving her breasts, all of which needed the bra to go.

But Shar reached back and put her hand on mine, blocking the hand that was trying to undo the bra. “No, darling, not the bra. I’m – The bra stays, darling.”

She chuckled happily when my face fell, and kissed my nose by way of compensation.

I thought perhaps she was shy about her breasts, which would certainly have drawn male attention when she was still young, and not all men are nice to adolescent girls. So I ran my hands lightly down her body, watching and loving the trembling as I held her hips. I edged my fingertips under the cami-knickers. Shar looked happy at my attentions and intentions, then infinitely sad. “No, I can’t. Freddie.”

So I stopped, but kissed her. I wasn’t quite sure what to do. She said, “This is like a date, yes?”

“Yes.” I frowned, puzzled.

“I’m not going to fuck you on the second date.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t look so stricken, Freddie darling. I quite like your chances for the third date.”

“Um. Then why -?”

“Darling, this isn’t something you can argue about. I was taught things about sex and not to be a slut.”

“I’m a slut,” I said. “It’s not so bad.”

“Yes, but you’re a man. It’s different for men. Freddie, I know you don’t believe in these rules, and neither do I. But … I still can’t fuck you on the second date.”

She kissed me again. “But don’t feel too bad. On a second date, a girl is allowed to do things that’ll keep her man interested.”

I said, “Whuh?” Shar undid the button of my jeans and tugged the zipper down. “Oh.” I raised my ass off the carpet for a few seconds so she could wrest my jeans down, and then off. She put her hand on my cock, still trapped in cotton, running her fingertips along its length, then clasping it firmly, feeling it throb against her palm. “Oh. Well, indeed. This seems kind of historical. But obviously it’s very fine .”

Shar glanced up at my face for an instant. “I really don’t think you need to talk.”

Maddie said nothing. She could enjoy whatever was to come, but what happened or how it happened was not her concern. I put lube, more that seemed possible, on my condommed cock, then put my hands on her ass and opened her a little. The moment she knew she was to be taken anally was the moment my cock pressed against her little ring.

She said, “O”, teeth still holding the cane. I pushed forward into her, slowly but in one long movement. Maddie didn’t breathe. I stopped, then, my belly tight against her buttocks, my cock throbbing deep inside her. My body was shaking with the pleasure of it.

I’d intended to fuck her hard and fast, refusing her permission to come, but something in her acquiescence called to me.

She was submitting deeply. She was being a good girl. So I fucked her ass hard, but less brutally than I’d planned. Maddie rolled her hips with my movements, holding my cock tight, keeping me deep inside her.

Her breath sped up, after we’d rocked together for some time, and so I sped up too, pumping her hard and feeling my orgasm collecting, building, at the base of my spine.

I reached under her to stroke her cunt, and we moved hard, bodies joined, until she came, squealing and yowling like a fucked cat.

I said, “good girl, good girl,” over and over, while she came. It was the first time I’d praised her since this morning, though she’d worked all day to obey and please me.

Later I dragged out the spare matters from the sick room, and we piled up sheets and [illows and lay together, a girl and her master.

It had been the hottest, most oppressive day you can imagine. The sky absolutely still, the temperature far too high and the humidity close to 100 per cent. You felt you could reach for a handful of air and squeeze it like a sponge. I was at my desk in just my underpants, trying to write, with sweat running down my body.

Then, finally the clouds arrived, speeding like the Seventh Cavalry, like a huge black blanket being towed by a speeding car. The rain came. It was a tropical downpour, with water drops as big as golf balls.

I heard a whoop from the other office; Therese, my houseguest. A few seconds she ran into my office, wearing a summer shirt, a bra and knickers. She grabbed my shoulder, leaned down and kissed me. “Let’s get the fuck out into this!”

“I’m Thor!” Lady Therese, goddeth of the thunder

So we ran out into my front yard, and her shirt was instantly soaked, clinging transparent to her skin. We squealed and yowled, running circles round each other and dancing at each other, furiously, stamping on the grass so the rain jumped, all energy and no grace. It was pagan enough.

Then the lightning struck; the thunder spoke only two seconds later.

The lightning bolt was only a couple of kilometres away. In lightning terms that’s right on top of you. The next bolt hit a tree on the property next door. The thunder was so fast, and close and loud that we both ducked, involuntarily.

Therese grabbed my arms and rolled down onto her back, pulling me down with her. On top of her. I pulled her shirt away from her body, and pushed her bra up, round her neck. She lifted her hips, so I shoved her knickers down to her knees, and put my foot into the gusset, pushing them the rest of the way down and off.

I said, “Um, I didn’t pack any condoms. Must have left them in my other underpants. I’ll- ”

She grabbed my shoulder again. “I’m still bleeding. You don’t mind a bit of blood, do you?”

“Fuck no.” That was the answer she expected. Years ago, when I started university, she’d been the first girl to cover my cock in her menstrual blood, so she knew I had no objection. (Though when I’d seen myself in the bathroom mirror post-fuck, that first time, with my cock covered in girl-gore, looking like it’d been in a car crash, I’d found that a bit of a shock. But I got used to it, and I’d never told her that.)

That skin feeling

“So you’re not going to get me pregnant. Fuck me. You can come in me.”

There were urgencies involved, so I said nothing and slipped my cock into warm, viscous cunt. We held each other and fucked, rolling each other over and over in the rain, with the lightning crashing around us, and the air we were in flashing into brilliance, and the thunder roaring.

Her cunt and my cock, sharing body territory, were wet and slippery, and because we’d started hard and fast, and continued faster, it was only a few minutes before I shouted something wordless, and made that space even wetter and more slippery.

She shouted for me not to stop, so I stayed, still pumping furiously, hoping she’d come while I still hard. And she screamed, water pummelling her opened mouth, and she drew her knees up, since she was on her back at that stage. She wrapped her legs round me. We lay in the grass, gasping, while the rain poured onto us, not so much in drops but as if someone was tipping out baths and 40 gallon drums of warm water onto us.

Then my brain came back on. This is how I get into trouble. I moved my hand up to the small of Dorabella’s back, where it could be affectionate and non-sexual. I kissed her cheek. “Um. Bellie, I better say goodnight.”

Her face had reddened nearly as much as Raylene’s ass. “I guess you better. Are you really going to strap Raylene again in the morning?”

“Not the strap. I’m going to cane her. For being rude to Lynette.”

“Christ. I should be horrified. But … well, she was a brat during dinner. Give her one for me.”

I should have left on that note.

But it was a generous concession from Bellie, and I was happy not to be a monster any more. So I kissed her mouth. She opened her mouth and we explored each other’s tongues and teeth, the way we’d done after that party, years ago. Bellie moved her feet apart. I knew that if I put my hands firmly on her ass, she’d lift her legs so I was carrying her. Then we’d fuck. I said, “Bellie. I have to go to bed…”

“And fuck Raylene.”

“Yup. Fucking will happen.”

Bellie sighed again, still in my arms. “Yes. I’m sorry. I’ve made a bit of a mess of this. I was wanting to tell you to be careful with Raylene, not try to fuck her … boyfriend.”

“We’re all people. You’re a good person. So’s Raylene. And Lynette, I guess.”

“You’d better think so. If you’re going to cane Raylene for being cheeky to her. Can she listen?”

It takes the male brain 0.05/second to start thinking on those terms. My brain, anyway, I’m afraid. No encouragement seems to be required

“She can watch, if she likes.” That was my cock, seizing control of my vocal cords. I didn’t expect that Lynette would want to watch a woman being brutalised by the patriarchy.

Bellie probably would, I suspected, but not with her sister. Probably. “Anyway, I try to be good too. So I’d best get the hell out of here and join Raylene. Goodnight, sweetie. And I will take care of her.”

I let go of Bellie and stood back. She smiled again, a mock-brave smile like a woman waving goodbye to a lover about to join the troops. I managed not to kiss her again. She said, “goodnight. Sir.”

That was a joke, mocking me and Raylene. I tried not to think about how it would sound if she’d meant it. I said, “Good night. Sleep tight.”

And I went to Raylene’s bedroom, not sure whether I’d just been heroically self-denying, or just an asshole.

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